


Forgiveness

by as_with_a_sunbeam



Category: 19th Century CE RPF, Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, duel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-12
Updated: 2020-07-12
Packaged: 2021-03-04 20:53:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,897
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25212724
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/as_with_a_sunbeam/pseuds/as_with_a_sunbeam
Summary: July 11, 1804. Aaron Burr is pulled from the dueling ground before he can speak to a mortally wounded Alexander Hamilton. But an unexpected late night summons gives him a second chance to make peace with his one time friend.
Relationships: Aaron Burr & Alexander Hamilton
Comments: 29
Kudos: 103





	Forgiveness

Hamilton rose on his tip toes and arched backwards. Watching him fall reminded Burr distantly of a ballet he’d once seen. Time seemed slower than normal. The sun glittered off the Hudson and filtered through the trees to create patterns on the rock face before him, giving the whole scene a dream-like quality, assisted by the cloud of smoke creating a haze around his vision.

Judge Pendleton dove forward to try to catch Hamilton but didn’t make it in time. Hamilton hit the ground hard, whimpering in pain. Burr’s eyes trailed down to Hamilton’s torso, to the long, ink stained fingers grasping desperately at Hamilton’s belly, just below his ribs. A red stain appeared on the waistcoat; red dribbled between the fingers; red splattered onto the dirt.

So much red.

Pendleton had made it to Hamilton finally. He knelt in the dirt and hooked his arms under Hamilton’s armpits to haul him up. Hamilton’s lips parted in a silent scream as he was adjusted to sit up in Pendleton’s arms. Those familiar eyes opened, rolling over the New York skyline behind Burr before coming to stop on Burr himself. Burr met his gaze and suddenly felt reality assert itself.

He’d done this. He’d shot Hamilton.

Hamilton looked frightened and confused, and Burr felt the sudden, intense urge to comfort him. He took a step forward. Another. Something caught his arm, stopped his progress. Van Ness was tugging at him, muttering something. Burr tried to pull his arm away, but Van Ness tugged harder.

“I have to go to him,” Burr tried to explain.

“We have to go, sir,” Van Ness replied.

Burr looked back at Hamilton, lying in the dirt. This wasn’t what he’d wanted. Hamilton met his gaze again and Burr tried to communicate. He wasn’t sure what he was trying to say, exactly, just that he needed Hamilton to _know._ Another tear tracked down Hamilton’s face, but he smiled weakly, tremulously.

He suddenly heard shouting coming up the path.

“Now, sir,” Van Ness whispered harshly in his ear. An umbrella whipped before his face, blocking Hamilton from view as Van Ness tugged with more urgency. He staggered down the path, Van Ness tugging him along.

Had that been real? Had he done that? He thought suddenly of Eliza, who’d been a friend to his darling wife. He thought of Philip, who he’d known since he was a toddler, dead now from a duel just like this one. He thought of Angelica, who’d been a friend to his daughter since the two were crawling in diapers on the carpet. What had he just done?

“I need to go back,” Burr blurted out, stopping before the waiting skiff.

“Get in, sir,” Van Ness pressed, bodily pushing him towards the boat.

“I need to speak to him.” He dug in his heels, refusing to budge. Hamilton was hurt. He needed to help him.

Van Ness seemed to realize that Burr wouldn’t move until he’ d had his way, because he offered, “I’ll go check on him. Just, get in the boat. I’ll be right back.”

Burr stayed on land as Van Ness disappeared back up the path. Burr remembered walking that way not even a hour ago. The sun hadn’t risen yet. He’d been so angry. This had all been a mistake, a terrible mistake.

Van Ness returned quickly, shaking his head at Burr as he came back down the path. “He’s unconscious, sir. I’m not even sure if he was breathing. There’s no speaking to him now. We need to go.”

He was herded onto the boat.

He spent the return journey staring at his hands.

The knock on the door startled Burr badly enough that the book he’d been staring at fell out of his hands. A glance at the clock confirmed it was well after eleven o’clock, much too late for respectable company. Ill-news could be the only possible reason, and a sour feeling rose up from his stomach. He knew the only news someone may be compelled to deliver this late—Alexander Hamilton succumbing to his injuries.

He took his time walking to the door, as if putting off the report could make it any less true. When he opened it, a servant stood before him with a letter held out. “A message from General Hamilton, sir.”

Surely a slip of the tongue, but one that made Burr wince all the same. “You mean regarding General Hamilton.”

“No, sir. A message from him. He penned it himself not half an hour ago. I watched him do it,” the messenger corrected.

Burr’s eyes widened. He reached out and grabbed the letter, tearing the paper slightly in his haste to unfold it.

_Dear Sir,_

_Dr. Hosack informed me of your letter inquiring after my health. If you are concerned for me, I would recommend you do as all my other friends have done and come see me for yourself. I will expect you no later than midnight._

_Yr. obt. servt.,_

_AH_

The nerve of him. Summoning Burr to his bedside, as if he’d fawn over him like all his other simpering worshippers.

“Do you have an answer, sir?” The messenger asked, still standing in his doorway.

A scathing remark was on his tongue before the image of the morning passed before his mind’s eye. Hamilton’s body jerking as the bullet pierced his side, the agonized moan that accompanied his slow descent to the earth.

“Tell him, I will see him within the hour,” Burr heard himself say instead.

Burr dressed slowly. He wrapped a scarf around his neck despite the humid air outside, still fighting off the last dregs of his ague. He set off into the night, walking briskly towards William Bayard’s house, trying not to think of all the ways this was wrong. Disturbed. He was stealing into a home in the middle of the night to visit with the man he’d shot not eighteen hours earlier.

He was on the second step of the stoop when Gouveneur Morris opened the door and stepped outside. Morris froze on the first step, a moment away from colliding with Burr, and his eyes went wide with fury.

“How dare you. How dare you, sir!” Morris screeched, a vein in his neck popping.

The door opened again, Doctor Hosack poking his head out.

“Mr. Morris, please, have some consideration. You’ll wake the whole household,” Hosack scolded. “Mr. Burr. It seems you are expected by my patient.”

“Expected!” Morris spluttered.

“General Hamilton asked me to attend him,” Burr said simply.

He side-stepped Morris and pushed into the darkened house. Hosack jutted his chin towards the steps. Disappointment and grief were both stamped in the doctor’s expression, but his voice remained steady, professional.

“Mrs. Hamilton is resting in a spare room for now, but you shouldn’t linger long in the sickroom. General Hamilton needs his rest.” 

Burr nodded his understanding. With a deep fortifying breath, he mounted the staircase. His footsteps sounded too loud on the wood as he ascended. What if he woke Eliza? He couldn’t imagine facing her ever again, much less tonight.

The door to the sickroom was propped open, candlelight making the interior look warm and welcoming. Dread pooled in his belly. He hesitated in the doorway, debating whether he could sneak out without being accosted by Hosack or Morris.

“Is that you, Burr?”

His thoughts stopped. His whole body stood frozen. He couldn’t do this, he couldn’t, he couldn’t….

“Burr?”

Hamilton’s voice sounded shaky and weak, like he was suffering from a bad cold. How often Burr had shared an office or a court bench with Hamilton when he was sniffling and coughing. That would never happen again. They’d never face each other in court. Never meet for drinks to discuss politics. Never pause on the street to share tales of their children’s antics. Never…a million nevers. Grief was welling up inside him.

“Aaron?”

Vulnerability. Fear. Was Hamilton afraid of him? He felt a flash of annoyance before the sinking realization—he was the reason Hamilton was dying. Whatever his reasons or justifications, Hamilton would be right to be afraid of him.

He forced his feet to step into the room. Forced his eyes to look upon the consequences of his actions from this morning. Hamilton was propped up in bed, his face so pale it was practically translucent. Those flashing eyes met Burr’s, and a weak smile pulled at his bloodless lips.

“I was beginning to think you wouldn’t come,” Hamilton said.

“You sounded quite confident of my obedience in your summons,” Burr retorted before he could bite his tongue.

He expected a righteously angry jab in return. Instead, Hamilton laughed. Then he moaned, a hand resting a top his stomach. “Don’t make me laugh.”

An apology was on his lips, but Hamilton continued, “Did I offend you?”

“You did, rather,” Burr admitted.

“Good. I meant to. I figured, if I already paid the ultimate price, I might as well enjoy myself.” Hamilton had, impossibly, blanched further as he spoke.

“Should I fetch the doctor?” Burr asked, ignoring the comment. He couldn’t fault the logic, at any rate.

“No,” Hamilton said, hardly above a whisper. “No, it will pass.”

A beat of silence followed. Burr stayed hovering in the doorway.

When the pain became manageable again, Hamilton flicked his wrist slightly. “Come here,” he whispered. 

Burr obeyed. He knelt by the bed, and when Hamilton’s palm turned up in invitation, he took his hand, squeezing it lightly.

“I’m sorry,” Hamilton said, stealing the phrase from Burr’s lips.

Burr looked at Hamilton, wide eyed and confused. Hamilton’s eyes were damp with tears, and his hand squeezed back weakly.

“I’m sorry if the things I said hurt you. Whatever happened in our political lives, I never wanted to hurt you personally.”

Something like panic began to take hold of Burr’s mind. Such a simple sentiment. A few weeks ago, that little speech had been all he’d wanted to hear. An apology. An admission that Hamilton had crossed the line. Not now, though. There was nothing in the world he wanted to hear less than that speech now.

“You can’t say that!” he exploded, ripping his hand away and standing abruptly. He found himself pacing before the foot of the bed, manic energy gripping him. “You can’t. Not now.”

“I’ve been thinking it for weeks. I…I didn’t want to die with you not knowing.”

A sob ripped from his throat, wholly against his will. “Why?”

A furrow appeared between Hamilton’s brow. “Why what?” 

“Why didn’t you just say that when I wrote you?”

Hamilton considered for a long moment. “Stubbornness, perhaps. Pride. The same reasons you challenged me rather than coming to my office to talk about what you’d read. It all seems rather pointless, now.”

“Alexander,” Burr said, voice tight. “I—”

“It’s all right.”

“You’re dying.”

“I know.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I forgive you.”

Burr gripped at the bedpost and he met Hamilton’s eye. Hamilton smiled, a gentle quirk to his lips. Burr nodded back, the corner of his own lips curving upwards despite the heaviness in his chest.

Later, people will look at him oddly when he claims Hamilton as his friend. “My good friend, Hamilton, whom I shot.” There’s satisfaction in the shock on their faces, that he can’t deny. But it was also undeniably true.

His friend, Hamilton, whom he shot.

**Author's Note:**

> After Hamilton fell, Burr does seem to have attempted to go over to him before being pulled from the dueling ground by his second. It's always left me wondering what it was Burr wanted to say to Hamilton or wanted to hear from him. And so, a late night conversation on Hamilton's last night. 
> 
> Thank you so much for reading! Feedback is always appreciated!


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